What If
by LeviosaQuest23
Summary: Harry has been thinking what if a lot lately. Follow him as he finds his answers from Muggles on the other side of the earth, from the internet of all places. And how does a mysterious author that we all know and love get involved in this?
1. How to Heal the Technologically Brainwas

The house was quiet. Uncle Vernon was at work, as usual and wouldn't be back for another hour. Aunt Petunia went out to the store and Dudley was 'having tea at Piers's house.' Harry sometimes wondered whether the Dursleys actually believed his cousin's lies or if they just didn't care; or even approved of it. Then again, they were the most blinded people he's ever met. What, he wondered, would happen if they seen what actually happened when Dudley went to these 'tea parties'. If they watched him go 'Harry Hunting' they'd probably cheer him on, but what about that Jonny kid down the street, or that girl on Mongolia Crescent? Would they care then? And would they do anything if they did? Harry honestly did not know.

He heard a tap on the window of his room and looked out. It was dark for a summer afternoon, but that's no surprise. It was just the rain the weather man once again failed to predict. It wasn't any kind of attack like last year.

He stood, leaning on the window sill, staring out at the increasingly heavy rain without seeing it. His mind was too busy to see anything at the moment. Thinking. It's all he's been doing when he wasn't busy with chores. Even then, his job is usually so mechanical that his mind begins to wander; and in his thinking he's realized, there are a lot of what if moments in his life. What if he chose not to go to Hogwarts; what if he chose Slytherin; what if he didn't do so well in the Triwizard Tournament; what if there was no prophesy; what if he wasn't so stupid; what if they never died; what if he'd died instead; what if he told –

But it doesn't matter. They already happened, they're already over. There's nothing he can do about it anymore.

Uncle Vernon pulled up in the drive-way, but it was raining so hard by now there was no hope of Harry hearing him. He didn't even notice anyone was home until he heard the lock on his bedroom door clicking open. Harry was jolted out of his trance and quickly hid his potion's textbook behind his desk before Uncle Vernon opened the door.

"Get dressed and get in the car. I have a job for you." He said with no preamble. He backed out of the tiny doorway. "And hurry up." He said before shutting the door.

Apparently when Uncle Vernon said he had a 'job' for him, he really did mean a job in the most literal sense of the word.

Five minutes for changing into Harry's most presentable shirt, a half hour silent car ride through heavy traffic with many grumbled complains of 'stupid construction workers', a short run through the rain, and a conversation with a Mr. Martin got Harry his first official job.

It seemed to be all figured out before they got there. He didn't know why he was dragged there in the first place. From what he picked up from Uncle Vernon and Mr. Martin's conversation, Mr. Martin was a potential client of Uncle Vernon's. A very important one it seemed since otherwise, he would have never admitted Harry existed under any circumstances. Mr. Martin worked for the library. Not just one library a chain of libraries that were planning on expanding to new locations. Harry wasn't sure of the whole story telling why he would need to buy new drills and not the construction company but he didn't really care. The important part was that one of Mr. Martins' employees was in a car accident and he needed a temporary replacement. That's where he came in.

So now, Harry _Valgrogh_ as his name take now read, was sitting at his new desk for the summer trying to remember his computer lessons from the fourth grade. His job was to type up the books in the library for their new 'digital library'. It was supposed to save paper which in turn saves trees. Helps the environment. It also made reading more convenient for the technologically brainwashed teenagers of the Muggle world. They were hoping that this would encourage them to enjoy reading instead of playing their 'mindless video games'. Harry thought it just made it easier for them to cheat on their book reports and essays. That's what he would do if the Wizarding textbooks were digitalized.

AN: i know this chapter is short but the next is longer. There's a big long story of why this chapter is so short but i don't think you really want to hear it. chapter 2 will be up as soon as i'm finished typing it.


	2. Puzzling Books

AN: I don't own anything. Not Harry Potter or City of Bones.

Harry sat at his desk, typing the last chapter of a book called "City of Bones" by Cassandra Clare." The book was pretty new—it came out sometime within the last year—but if he had to guess, Harry would say it was at least a few years old. It had that worn look to it. Not the kind that you would associate with the abused, torn ones you would find at any given school. More like Hermione's broken bindings from repeated use. The tapping of the black and white keys continued as it has for the last week since Harry got his job.

In that week, Harry made a very important discovery: Having a job wasn't much different from being on Number 4. At first, he thought this might give him something to do, something more useful than being a slave for the Dursleys.

It didn't make a difference. Typing out copies of books in the fiction section of the library required no thought. This left his mind to wander to unpleasant thoughts of … S-s-s—ugh. He couldn't even bear to think his _name_, but that didn't keep his mind from replaying that horrible moment over and over.

He's tried to pay more attention to the story he was typing. Hermione always said that books have a way of taking you out of reality and letting you be, for just a brief moment, someone else. There's only one problem with that theory. People don't seem to write about normal people leading normal, untroubled, unthreatened lives. All the characters seemed way too similar to himself. It was almost like some lying reporter like Rita Skeeter was trying to write his biography.

There's a pattern to these books. A pattern that, it seemed his life also followed. There's a good guy and there's a bad guy. His English teacher from Primary School would have called them the 'protagonist' and the 'antagonist'. The bad guy is after something. Usually something stupid like world domination. He also has a bunch of minions with—though sometimes subtle—some kind of uniform. Hmm. Now who does that sound like?

Meanwhile, the 'hero' as the protagonist usually is, is some random kid who thinks they're nothing special. Who's either ignored and blends into the crowd or gets picked on by all the bullies, but actually has some secret superpower that they never knew about. That sounds familiar too, doesn't it? But this is the best part. Against all odds the hero will save all humanity and survive through the entire ordeal with barely a scratch and all will remember him as their savior for millennia. All without alerting their parents that there's something to worry about.

That is where the term fiction comes in. These characters, though they may go through the same type of obstacles as we all do, know nothing of struggle and sacrifice and betrayal. Their family and friends don't die. Half the time if they do they come back or they didn't _actually _die at all; just held prisoner by the evil guy. Apparently all adults had the same mindset as Dumbledore and thought teenagers couldn't handle a bit of truth.

The tapping abruptly ended and was followed by a series of clicking noises, and finally a squeak of the wheeled chair as Harry leaned back to take a well-earned rest. His green eyes were half-way closed. He hasn't been sleeping well at night lately and he had his eyes glued to a bright computer screen most of the day. He never read _that_ in any of these stupid books either. Lucky fictional characters.

The computer beeped and Harry awakened out of the slight doze he fell into. A message saying UPLOAD COMPLETE was the main thing on the screen. Harry hit okay and set up to start again. This was his second book he finished. At first they had him in the children's section typing short chapter books, but after his first, the Boss was so impressed with his speed they switched him to young adult fiction. Harry didn't know how his fingers still remembered what his fourth grade keyboarding teacher taught him after all these years not even touching one besides Mr. Weasley's old broken one in his garage.

He brought up a document page and left his desk, heading for the bookshelves. He browsed up and down, looking for something that caught his eye. That something came in the form of a very short multi-hundred paged book. It had a paperback dark blue cover with a picture of a hooded figure running into a dark and mysterious looking forest, but the cover wasn't the interesting part. The part that Harry was interested in was the title: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

Harry stood staring blankly at the book. Thoughts ran through his head dizzyingly, making it impossible to focus on any at once. His senses, working on autopilot, heard footsteps, unnaturally loud to his ears, coming and his body reacted with a mind of its own. He almost didn't notice his hand putting the book in an inside pocket of his jacket he made himself for his wand. It was made to hide anything inside so that he could take his wand with him anywhere in the Muggle world.

By the time the mystery person came around the corner and into view, Harry was already pretending to look through books like nothing happened.

"Oi, Valgrogh." (Where in the world did Uncle Vernon come up with this name?)One of the employees called. He though his name was Mc-something or other but he was speaking before he could remember. "Boss wants you in his office."

"On my way," Harry answered hopefully in a very nonchalant way. Mc-what's-his-face must have bought it because the young, excitable assistant bounced his heels in a way that reminded him very much of Ludo Bagman and turned to lead Harry away.

A trip through a few hallways and up some stairs brought the two to a door with a silver nameplate reading JOSHUA MARTIN. The assistant opened the door to reveal a small waiting room. There were six blue stiff looking armchairs scattered throughout the room and a neat and organized desk near the far right corner. Sitting on top of a stack of papers was the assistant's discarded name tag : Michael McDonald.

"He's expecting you." Michael said, gesturing toward a door next to his desk.

Harry knocked lightly three times before entering. Mr. Martin, or the Boss as everyone called him, was sitting across from the doorway with his hands folded on his desk. He was probably trying to look 'intimidating' with his blue eyes were staring into his green ones.

Joshua Martin reminded Harry much of his uncle. Not in looks but in behavior. He noticed it when he came last week when the two were so friendly with each other.

As a businessman, did whatever he could to keep his customers and gain more. He wore a plain gray suit with a boring black tie and shined shoes. He tells people what to do and expects them to do it; no opinions, no suggestions, and no complaints even when he contradicts himself. In short, the main rule of living with the Dursleys also applies to the library: no imagination allowed.

"Sit down Mr. Valgrogh," he said calmly, his face blank. Harry obeyed keeping his face equally devoid of any emotion that might give away the book magically hidden in his pocket. Call him paranoid but even magic isn't foolproof, especially if when you think you're talking to a Muggle, you're actually speaking to a wizard.

Harry did what he was told. Strangely, this reminded him of sitting in Dumbledore's office.

"I've noticed that you finished a book this morning," he said. Yeah, about ten minutes ago. Was he watching him?

"Yes, sir, I sent a notification to the tech guys so they know it's in the database.

"Good, good. I have a specific assignment for you if you're willing." He reached into a shelf in his desk and pulled out by the looks of it, an ancient book. It looked like if you so much as gripped too hard it would crumble into dust. Harry wouldn't be surprised if most of the pages were missing. Harry couldn't see a title. It was probably rubbed out, but he could see something shiny on the cover.

"A person who would like to remain anonymous gave the library a fair bit of money recently. In exchange, he wanted as much of this to be transferred to a computer file as possible. It's a family heirloom many years old and he want so save what's left before it there isn't anything left at all."

Harry sat quietly and listened closely. For some reason he was very interested by this book. Almost like it was alive and just wanted to jump at him and he wanted to catch it.

"He also wants to be able to read it. Everything needs to be translated to English."

"What language is it in now, sir?" Harry asked. Wondering how he'd type a book he can't read.

"We're thinking something along the lines of Latin or Greek." The danger alarm in his head (not his scar, the normal one) started whirling in his head. Latin. The magical language. Maybe it was just a coincidence…

Not likely.

So, there's a wizard or witch somewhere in the world who wanted an old book translated and legible. If the heirloom story was true, he would say it was an old family, but what old family—which pretty much translates to pureblood—would go to a Muggle company to do it? The Weasleys were the only one's he knew that would be okay with it, but he never claimed to be an expert on pureblood families.

There's also the possibility that the family used to be purebloods, but that has changed through the years as people decided to marry Muggles or Muggle-borns. His thoughts were interrupted when he realized that Mr. Martin was still talking.

"… he was very picky about who handles it, which is quite understandable with something this old and important. I'm surprised he trusted us with it at all. He requested you specifically. Wouldn't let anyone else touch it. Told me if anything happened to it he would blame me personally."

Harry had a lot to think about and for once it wasn't about past mistakes or death or any of that stuff he wanted to forget or just disappear. This book was a mystery Harry was itching to solve; that he was _allowed, _even _told to_ solve this time. It was definitely magical. That was obvious from the moment he touched it. It gave him the tingling feeling in his fingers. That pull he felt from when he first saw it grew until he wasn't sure he could help opening it and exploring it right there in Mr. Martin's office.

He was now at his desk, free to flip through –carefully of course—to his heart's content. Unfortunately, that was all he could really do. He could pick up a few words here and there, but he was no expert on dead languages. He'd have to think of a way to read it. Maybe there was a Latin dictionary at Flourish and Blotts. Tomorrow was Saturday, his day off. He could probably find a way there as long as the Dursleys didn't stop him.

He still had two hours before it was time to leave, Harry used that time to analyze this fascinating object, using anything from the handwriting to the feel of the parchment as clues leading him to who this book belonged too and what it might be about. The other mysterious book that lay hidden in his pocket didn't even cross his mind.


End file.
